


Kinky Ficlets

by eratospen



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (in the context of kink), Belly Kink, F/F, Fat Shaming, Kink Meme, M/M, Pregnancy Kink, Stuffing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-11-30 05:15:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11456745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eratospen/pseuds/eratospen
Summary: Kinky-as-heck snippets focusing on erotic weight gain, stuffing, belly kink, etc.If this doesn't sound like your kind of thing, I promise you, it isn't.





	1. Stuck (Cullen/Male Inquisitor: Belly Kink, weight gain kink)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: Omg if you can do an immobile Cullen or Cullen stuck in a doorway because of his weight (maybe with an Inquiditor lovingly rubbing and gently slapping his stomach) I will be forever indebted to you.
> 
> Includes some light fat-shaming, done as part of kink-play.

It was late—late enough that the stars had begun to fade with encroaching morning light, late enough that he _should_ have been fast asleep, damn it. Corrin grumbled beneath his breath and curled into a tighter ball, burrowing beneath the heavy furs. It was cold as _balls_ out, snow gathering in small heaps across the glass they’d long ago had placed in that damned hole in Cullen’s ceiling. On clear nights, that simple skylight let them lay side by side and watch the stars for as long as they wanted.

Tonight?

Tonight, screw idle romanticism. Corrin just wanted to _sleep_.

He pressed his face against his pillow and reached out to throw an arm over the sleeping mountain of his lover…only to find a deep, warm divot in the mattress where Cullen _should_ have been.

Corrin squinted open one eye as if to check the evidence of his hands, then sighed and blinked fully awake. Yes, Cullen was gone, at Maker-knew-what time in the morning. Likely he’d made his way down to his office to get an early start on the day. He’d been doing that more and more often of late, squirreling out of their comfortable nest to work himself to the bone (well, metaphorically). Corrin knew he was the worst kind of influence on the other man—knew that if he wanted the Inquisition to continue to flow flawlessly along, Cullen had to do his work—but he _hated_ sleeping alone. Even more than that, he hated the hours their blighted _duty_ forced them to remain apart.

Sighing in a put-upon way, Corrin flopped over onto his back and glared up at the snow-covered skylight. Being responsible was the very _worst_.

Several feet away, Cullen cleared his throat. “Oh good,” he said, sounding strained. “You’re awake.”

“Maybe. But _why_ am I awake?” Corrin muttered. He didn’t look over, instead starfishing out so his long elven limbs took up a good three-quarters of their sturdy bed. The stars seemed to wink dimly above him, vanishing one by one as the night sky bled from indigo to violet. “It’s too bloody early to be vertical. Also, too cold.”

“…yes,” Cullen said. The strain was more pronounced, and there was a strange creak of wood. Not quite the floorboards settling under his lover’s bulk, but more like the belly of a ship as its joins and greaves moved together. “Ah, quite.”

Corrin blinked owlishly up at the skylight, deliberately not looking over yet. It was more fun to tease the often uptight Commander. “So, you sound sheepish,” he said. “Maybe a little titillated. If I look over there, are you going to be laid out in silks like a fancy Orlesian tart?”

“Maker’s breath, Corrin,” Cullen said, and that strange creaking sound was back, louder this time. It got his thoughts spinning out in all _sorts_ of delicious new directions. “Would you stop being dramatic for a moment and come help me? I’m, ah…” He trailed off, coughing gently in obvious flustered mortification, and _that_ was enough to have Corrin scrambling up out of the nest of blankets to balance on his knees: he loved it when his too-prim lover got out of sorts. “…I appear to be stuck.”

 _Stuck_.

The word hit him like an actual blow, sending Corrin toppling back again onto his ass in silent shock as he _stared_. Cullen, it seemed, really _had_ crept out of bed early and slipped down the ladder to his office below. Or, rather, he’d _tried_. Instead, he was standing on the ladder some rungs down, legs lost below him.

That wouldn’t have been remarkable on its own, of course. They were both up and down that ladder more than once during the day, nearly every day. Corrin’s favorite part of the evening was following Cullen up it toward their shared room, watching the heavy sway of the other man’s wide hips as he climbed reinforced metal rungs—huge ass cupped lovingly by leather—thick legs straining ever-tighter trousers—bottom swell of his stomach slapping his fat thighs with each step. The best part, Corrin’s _favorite_ part, was when Cullen reached the apex of the ladder and had to squeeze his way through the opening that used to be more than wide enough for two and a half of him to pass.

“Oh, Cullen,” Corrin said, staring. “It looks like your squeezing days may be over, love.”

Cullen flushed an even deeper red, squirming fitfully. There came that strange creaking sound again, as his lover’s body fought against the cold-contracted floorboards. He’d made it through all the way to the widest part of him: those _hips_ , that _ass_ , that _belly_ trapping him tight. From the privates down, he was no longer visible…though oh Maker, what a view someone coming into his office would have!

Corrin scooted closer, climbing off the bed to get a better look. His lover’s huge belly bubbled up over the lip of the hole, spilling onto the floorboards in front of him. _It_ was flushed just as red as the rest of him, delightfully naked and quivering with each jerk as Cullen tried to free himself.

He looked absolutely huge like this, Corrin thought. Not just fat, but shockingly obese. His heavy second chin ringed that handsome face, dark with scruff. His shoulders were puffy, as were his arms, layers of fat overlaying muscle, rippling with every move he made. His tits were truly magnificent, spilling out from his chest heavy enough for Corrin to get a solid handful. Sometimes he liked to tease Cullen by pinching his nipples and cupping the soft mounds, whispering how any day now they’d need to find him a delicate silk breastband to keep him decent.

(They never strayed into that kind of play yet, but Corrin was always interested to note that despite Cullen’s deep flush and scowl, he never said _no_.)

His sides flowed in thick, soft rolls, one on top of the other, angling out into hugely flaring hips that never comfortably fit in any chair—and that belly. That big, heavy mound of a belly, pooling in front of him not unlike an offering, just begging to be fondled and poked and teased.

“Commander Cullen,” Corrin said, padding on light feed around his lover. The view was just as delicious from the back, the crack of Cullen’s wide ass just visible, the rest of him lost beneath the entranceway. “Are you _naked_ right now?” He tried his best to sound shocked.

Mostly, he was just getting hard.

Cullen grunted out an annoyed-pained sound, slapping his hands against the floorboards around him and trying to push himself up. He was too big, too fat, too _stuck_ to do more than squirm uselessly. “I hadn’t exactly planned on taking long,” he gritted out. That blush kept darkening, swirling across his chins, down his neck, over his chest. He grunted again, trying to twist his big body free. “If I’d realized I’d be reduced to…reduced to _this_ , I would have planned better.”

“Reduced to what?” Corrin purred. He crouched behind the other man and slid his hands over his shoulders and down to cup his chest. Corrin gave a little squeeze, loving the sharp hitch in Cullen’s breath. He knew the line between cruel and welcomed taunting—this wasn’t a new game for them, even if the particulars of the situation was. Cullen knew his watchword. “ _Look_ at you,” he added, leaning in to prop his chin on Cullen’s shoulder, gliding his hands down to rub against the heavy weight of his fat belly. “Look at the brave Commander Cullen, hero of the Inquisition, defender of Thedas. They tell stories in taverns about how you helped defeat Corypheus and save the world.”

He bit at Cullen’s earlobe, sucking it between his teeth even as he gave his stomach a sharp slap. Cullen grunted and jerked in response, both of them watching as soft ripples spread from the point of impact. “What would they say now?” he whispered, tongue laving over the sharp prick of his teeth. Corrin grabbed two handfuls of his lover’s belly, lifting it only to let it go dropping down with a heavy _thud_. “What would they say if they realized just how far you’d gone to pot? Just how _fat_ you’d let yourself become?”

Cullen’s breaths were coming faster, and his skin was molten hot against Corrin’s hand despite the chill. The former Templar looked away, horribly embarrassed but just as clearly aroused; before much longer, Corrin would have him panting and thrusting helplessly into the air. “Do you like the way they look at you?” he wondered, slipping around his lover’s helpless form. Corrin was just as naked as Cullen, muscles contracting beneath his lithe body as he spread his thighs around the wide swell of his lover’s belly, deliberately rocking forward against it. He caught the outer spill of Cullen with his knees, hands smoothing over the widest point of him before—

_Smack!_

—he slapped the smooth skin again. This time, when Cullen’s belly rippled in response, he could feel it against his firming cock.

Cullen closed his eyes and _moaned_.

“Shh,” Corrin murmured, leaning in to press their foreheads together. They were _both_ panting now, both getting increasingly into the game. The thought that Cullen was naked and hard somewhere beneath him was thrilling—especially when mixed with the danger that one of his soldiers really _could_ come to his office early. The image of that, of some brave soul stepped inside and looking around for his Commander…then looking _up_ to see nothing but fat legs and a wide white ass and an aching prick and the wide weight of his hips and belly keeping him pinned in utter helpless horror…

Void, but that was a wonderful thought. It made him moan and rock forward again, breaching the distance between their mouths for a long, tangling kiss.

Cullen kept squirming as if to free himself, kept trying to twist around even as he slicked their tongues together in obvious hunger. If he was free, now would be the time he’d be pushing Corrin back and moving on top of him—careful to keep his weight on hands and knees as he let the mass of his stomach crush down, pinning him, leaving _Corrin_ the helpless one. Sometimes he taunted Corrin then, made vague threats, called him weak, and it was always, always glorious.

But that wasn’t happening tonight. Not with Cullen so obviously trapped by his own gluttony, not with his lush body finally far, far too fat to fit in his own bloody room.

Corrin rubbed his hands over the big mountain of his thick belly, squeezing and shaking and riding the heavy tremors before soothingly petting away the sting. No matter how often they teased, it always did come back to just how much he adored his fat lion of a man.

“Want me to help you squeeze yourself out of this?” he murmured against Cullen’s mouth, biting at his lips before kissing his way across the delicious swell of his second chin to nibble at his fat neck.

Cullen sighed, beet red, firmly stuck, too fat to free himself—at the Inquisitor’s complete mercy. …and shook his head. “Later,” he said, tipping back his head to look at Corrin. His expression was torn between embarrassment and lust and an adorable shyness: Corrin wanted nothing more to kiss every bit of skin he could reach. “First, ah… Could you tell me what my former teachers would say if they could see me now?”

Corrin began to grin, tightening his knees around the soft mound of fat, rolling his hips forward until his hard cock could stutter along the swell of him. He gave Cullen’s wobbly belly one last gentle slap, other hand darting up to cup a handful of breast and squeeze. “Well,” he said, voice husky. “I think they’d start with saying, horrified, that they’d never imagined their Templar lion could become such a greedy little pig.”


	2. Hips Don't Lie (F!Hawke/Fenris; gradual weight gain, hourglass/hips and thighs gain)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Can you please do one about a slowly gaining F!Hawke (more red/purple than diplomatic) and some light hearted teasing when companions notice she is starting to bump into or knock things over more often and can't figure out why, but LI finds the new clumsiness endearing (preferably Fenris although anyone but Varric would be fine).

Fenris was deep in concentration, studying the spread of cards fanned neatly before him. Across the table, Varric leaned back in his chair, tapping his chin with an amused-yet-patient expression. The night was slow, quiet, wonderfully uneventful. Norrah wove through tables taking orders and a few of the usual drunks sat huddled in a corner singing off-key—off-color—chantry songs. Everything was almost too peaceful…which of course could only be cue for a resounding crash, followed immediately by Hawke’s disgusted:

“Oh, Maker’s furry nutsack.”

Fenris was on immediate high alert, turning in his chair in search of attackers—only to relax back when he realized what had happened.

 _Again_.

Leaning against the bar, chin on her fist, Isabela began to laugh. “You’ve got to splash a little higher if you want the ale to land on your tits, love,” she said. Then, at Hawke’s incredulous look, “What? No better way to whet a man’s thirst than to get the girls nice and dripping.”

“ _Thanks_ ,” Hawke said, voice bone-dry even as the rest of her visibly wasn’t. “I’ll be sure to remember that.”

Isabela, of course, just kept laughing as Hawke wiped helplessly at the front of her shirt. She’d knocked over an entire tray of drinks this time—what’s more, she was wearing more than half of it, the front of her sensible pants soaked through, her shirt clinging like a second skin to the gentle pooch of her belly and the dramatic curve of her hips.

She sighed. “Great,” Hawke said. “Now I smell like an alehouse, too.”

“An alehouse you’ll be paying for,” Norrah added, moving around the bar with dangerously narrowed eyes. “Your tab’s running up day by day, _Champion_. Good thing you can afford the cost of being so damn clumsy, aye?”

Hawke opened her mouth to protest, then paused and sighed and spread her hands in defeat. “I guess the money has to go somewhere,” she said. She plucked at the front of her boxy tunic again. “I just wish I understood what’s been getting into me lately. It seems like I’ve been nothing but thumbs these past few months, even when I’m _not_ wearing my sword.”

Isabela arched a brow but, Fenris noticed with interest, didn’t say anything. None of them did, though it was becoming increasingly obvious that Hawke wasn’t just casually dismissive of the glacier-slow changes to her naturally curvaceous shape; in fact, evidence kept piling up that Hawke hardly seemed to be aware she had gained weight at all.

Which, he mused, eyes lingering on the full curve of her arse as she bent to help Norrah clean up shattered glass—wide hip clipping against a chair and nearly sending it toppling—was so outrageous it nearly beggared belief.

Marian Hawke had, as far as Fenris could tell, always been what the Fereldens liked to call a _sturdy_ girl. She was tall and she was strong and she was… _strapping_ , with the kind of exaggerated hourglass figure that Isabela liked to flaunt with single-minded devotion. Broad shoulders led to heavy breasts that overflowed even the most determined binding. A curving waist boasted a soft swell of belly and hips that could drive a man to madness.

 _He’d_ spent more nights than he wanted to admit long before Hawke beckoned him into her bed, imagining what those hips, that ass, those breasts would feel like spilling between his hands. Dreaming up how incredible it would feel to be pulled between undeniably strong, lush thighs—not quite fat, not quite trim, existing in some perfect in-between that had him spilling over his hand night after night.

She came to Kirkwall a goddess of temptation, with her bombshell curves and her heart-shaped face and her full-cheeked grin, dimples flashing with every laughing smile as she tossed back shoulder-length black hair and beckoned him closer with ever-smoldering eyes.

Of course, then came the fateful night he’d walked away, and those three hard years. The loss of her mother. The rising qunari tension. The _Arishok_. And now, finally, Meredith and Orsino set and determined to drive them all into full-fledged war, with Hawke stuck forever in the middle.

He couldn’t bring himself to judge her for whatever meagre comforts she claimed in those three impossible years. He certainly couldn’t deny whatever pleasure Hawke managed to scrounge for herself, whether it be crashing lavish parties held by her new supposed peers or drinking with Isabela and Varric until the wee hours of morning, or… _anything_. Everything.

And though he had been all-too-aware of the subtle changes those years had been eeking out on her body—adding gradual inch after inch after _inch_ until those powerful thighs rubbed softly together with each step, until her pale arms jiggled over muscle as she swung her sword, until those curvaceous hips and ass that used to drive him wild had all but doubled in size, swaying increasingly wide behind her, straining the seams of every pair of trousers she dug up—Fenris merely sat back, he worshipped from afar, and he came to know and love every blooming swelling inch of her.

The only difference now being he was allowed to _touch_.

Hawke cursed as she reached for another shattered glass, hips bumping hard against the table. It _screeched_ to the left, giving way against her bulk. The chair clattered down between the two women, nearly smashing their fingers in the process.

Norrah sat back, scowling. “ _You_ ,” she said, pointing at Hawke, “are a menace. Until you learn to get that fat arse of yours under control, you’re to sit tight and let the rest of us worry about moving around you.”

Hawke straightened, visibly startled. “I was just trying to _help_ ,” she protested.

“Your help’s bound to get us all killed someday.”

“Oh now, love,” Isabela said, swooping in before an argument could bloom. She gently caught Hawke’s chubby arm and helped tug her to her feet—sending the table scooting another few inches as Hawke found her balance. Fenris bit the inside of his mouth, watching with undisguised interest. “No need to bitch over spilled milk. Ale. Whatever. Though _you,”_ she added, giving Hawke’s wide rear a playful swat; she’d taken to doing that more and more as there _was_ more and more to send bouncing with each slap, “need to change out of those things, or every drunk in here will be trying to drink from your belly and tits by the time the evening’s through.”

“You can ransack my room, Hawke,” Varric called out helpfully. “There’s bound to be some shit you left in there. Then hurry back and join us for a hand: Fenris here is useless without you.”

Fenris shot the dwarf a dirty look, but he didn’t try to deny it. His attention had been focused far more closely on Hawke than on his cards for the last quarter-hour or so.

Hawke let out a gusting breath, dragging her fingers through her hair. “All right,” she said, shooting Fenris a sweet, almost-shy smile before turning and swaying her way up toward the stairs to Varric’s room. “I’ll be right with you.”

Isabela folded her arms, watching her go. Fenris watched her go. Venhedis, even _Varric_ watched her go. The whole Hanged Man could have fallen into the void and no one would have noticed.

Finally, when Hawke was out of sight, Isabela sauntered over to join then, whistling long and low. “There’s something about a thick backside that makes the juices flow,” she said, waggling her brows at Fenris’s frown. “Am I right, Fenris?”

He gathered up his cards and didn’t deign to reply.

Of course, Isabela had never needed encouragement to be crass. “But _that_ woman’s backside?” She sprawled back into a chair, hooking a thigh over the arm and baring a dangerous amount of skin. “It’s gotten to be its own deadly weapon. Tell me, Varric, what’s the title of this chapter of the Champion’s story going to be? _Marian Hawke: Plumper in Hightown_.”

“Don’t be cruel, Rivaini,” Varric said mildly.

She shot him an incredulous look. “I’m not,” she said. “Only an idiot wouldn’t be into it. Hawke was always a thing of beauty, but Hawke slowly getting fat? Mmm, all those curves now have their very own curves! And the way she doesn’t seem to realize just how _big_ she’s gotten is delightful. I know Fenris enjoys it—don’t you?”

Both gazes swung to him, but all he could do was squirm uncomfortably in his seat, too embarrassed to admit that yes, in fact, he enjoyed his lover’s slow but inexorable gain very, very much.

Isabela cackled at whatever she read in his eyes. “ _See_ , Varric? Fenris likes watching her get fat, I like watching her get fat, some of the louts around here certainly like watching her get fat…it’s win-win-win all around. And besides, imagine how powerful that narrative would be? The Champion, after winning the day, letting herself go soft but never losing her edge. Doubling in size over three years, yet still able to crack heads and take names. It’s inspiring.” She smirked and rested her chin on her fist. “And the way she _jiggles_ when she fights! I only hope my assets are half that distracting.”

Fenris made a show of snapping his hand of cards open again, as if he were about to play. He stared at her over them flatly, revealing nothing. “I would say,” he murmured, aware of movement at the top of the steps as Hawke rejoined them, “perhaps _half_ at most. You are—” But he made the mistake of looking up and words—thoughts—language entirely left him as he _stared_ at the vision making her way to join them.

Isabela turned eagerly in her chair, brows lifting—then sucked in a breath, letting out it out in one long, hearty laugh.

“Andraste’s tits,” Varric muttered, setting down his own cards. “Is she trying to start a riot?”

Hawke, it seemed, _had_ found a pair of spare trousers in Varric’s room…and they may even had fit her at some point. That point was many months and many inches in the past. Now, they were practically painted onto her, skin-tight to the point of obscenity and hanging dangerously low, far beneath her natural waist. (Far enough that it was obvious she hadn’t bothered with smallclothes.) The waist was visibly straining with each exaggerated sway, buttons barely holding the fly together. They’d go popping off one after the other if she so much as breathed wrong, the gentle swell of her stomach pressed against them, just begging to be freed.

It may not have been so bad if she’d found a half-decent shirt to pull down past the worst of it, but instead Marian had snagged one of _Varric’s_ tunics. He was broad enough in the chest that it almost worked, but the deep V was so exaggerated—and the cloth so snug—that her heavy breasts nearly spilled out the front. Any moment now they’d come popping free, ripping what was left of his shirt right down the middle. The sides were cut in simple shirring, and the whole thing was short on her long torso, baring her stomach, the widest, lushest stretch of her hips (with their faint criss-crossing of stretch marks), her overflowing ass, her, her…everything. _Everything_ was on display, bloated and thick and fat and _his_.

This beautiful woman, this goddess, this warrior with her ever-softening frame was _all his_ , and Fenris itched to get his hands on her. Tonight, he would whisk her back to her Hightown mansion and tease her with kisses and furtive touches until she was dripping wet and panting for breath—each deep lungful making her burst from the prison of those too-tight pants, tear free of the cage of the tunic, tumble out of constricting clothes that may have fit once upon a time and tremble—soft and warm and _his_ his his, welcoming him into the ever-plumping cradle of her thighs.

Making him feel like no matter what else the world had taken from him, he could be happy if only he had this.

“Looking good, Hawke,” Isabela called brightly as Hawke sashayed over. “I love that on you.”

“I think it’s probably a little too tight,” Hawke said, stopping at their table. She was flushed, but smiling too, as if she could sense she was the center of the room’s rapt attention. She met Fenris’s gaze, her own eyes smoldering. “But it’ll do for now. I—shoot,” she added when she shifted, hip clipping the table and sending it lurching back a few inches. Fenris caught it with a smack against his palms, both brows raising.

Hawke arched a single brow back. “Sorry, Fenris,” she said, smoothing her hands over the exaggerated curve of her perfect hourglass. _Marian Hawke: Plumper in Hightown_ indeed. “Guess I don’t know my own strength.”


	3. The Prince (m!Hawke/Sebastian: Belly kink, weight gain, stuffing, some mild pregnancy kink)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: oooh, i've had this concept in my head for a while: if i remember correctly, starkhaven is all about showing off wealth in their architecture (ie, marble and gold everywhere, huge fancy estates, etc)... so it wouldn't be too far of a stretch to assume that they subscribe to the whole "fat = wealthy and successful" idea.
> 
> so maybe when sebastian takes the throne, the palace staff are determined to fatten him up as much as possible in order to reflect well on starkhaven's financial status as a city-state.

It was edging into late morning already and he was _still_ abed—propped against a bevy of goose-down pillows, blankets folded neatly around his hips, remains of his latest breakfast dish cooling on its tray. He wanted to be up and about, getting actual work done, but Sebastian had been the crown prince of Starkhaven for over a year now.

In other words, he knew exactly how many steps he’d get before a passel of disapproving servants guilted him _back_ into this voluptuous recline.

Sebastian lifted a beringed hand and politely burped against his fist, making room for the final round of today’s breakfast. He was getting better at plowing through the many-coursed meals at a steadier clip, cutting his time at table nearly in half. The first few months had been _brutal_. He was inured to hardship, but his time at the Kirkwall Chantry had not prepared him for indulgence of any kind—Sebastian had trained himself until he was no natural glutton.

It turned out that didn’t matter so much to the people he was set to rule. In the lush, hedonistic, proud land of Starkhaven, wealth equaled power, but it also equaled thick thighs and quivering flesh—bellies pressing against finely-pricked embroidery and calves stretching hose past its limits.

He dropped a hand to his own over-stuffed gut as he lifted the fork again, ready for the few more bites needed to finish this next-to-final course. Oh, how he’d fought against this sort of thing when he’d first arrived. He’d cited doctrine, scripture, treatise on how fasting led to spiritual awakenings.

It had all fallen on deaf ears, his servants arriving every morning, noon, and night with an overabundance of food no matter how often he told them he wished only to dine on bread, water, and the Maker’s love.

Eventually…even he grew tired of fighting.

Sebastian rubbed a gentle circle against his protruding belly, massaging away some of the painful heaviness. He was swollen out into a mockery of the male form, stuffed nearly beyond bearing: reclining back on satin pillows, as corpulent as any of the ancestors who looked down at him from their gilt frames. His strong jaw was softened, his broad shoulders and arms were a blend of muscle of fat, and he’d begun to notice the unwelcome softness of his chest growing as recent weeks passed, that early puffiness finally giving way to the blossoming promise of _tits_ if he didn’t stop this madness soon.

Those little budding breasts atop the globular stretch of his over-stuffed gullet made him feel like a woman heavy with child. Sometimes, if he’d underestimated the strength of the wine he was given, Sebastian liked to rub his palms over the proud, creaking dome of his belly and imagine he truly was fat with child. (With _Hawke’s_ child, though he’d never let the man so much as steal a kiss; though he’d left the rogue far behind with hardly a word as Kirkwall burned.) Blooming as he grew gravid and soft, belly leading him into every room, adored each night as his dark lover rubbed oils along his swollen skin and distracted him from the pain of carrying with delightful flicks of a clever tongue across his aching prick.

Those shameful thoughts only came when drunk, or sleeping, or…yes, fine, sometimes on lazy mornings like _this_ , when he was beckoning servants forward to bring him the final round of dishes, his body already stuffed into its ballooning shape, his heavier hips settling—widening—across the soft mattress, his soul by turns ashamed and titillated by the wasteful hedonism of it all.

He was dressed in nothing but a glorified loincloth, cock half-hard and belly resting gravid in his lap, so over-full that he wasn’t sure he could sit up without monumental struggle…and perhaps the help of strong young hands gripping his ever-softening flesh. It _shouldn’t_ have been pleasurable or even bearable, and yet it seemed the dissolute lifestyle treated him better than he would have thought.

Sebastian waved his golden fork around, circling thoughtfully over various delicacies. They’d reached the pastry portion of breakfast—his favorite. How could he have forgotten what a voracious sweet tooth he had when unchecked? How could he have forgotten his specific appetites? When he’d first come to Kirkwall, it was as a sullen youth with chubby thighs and a belly soft from overindulgence in liquor. He’d whittled that away into the strong, pious man he’d presented to everyone he met, and yet how bloody little had it taken before he was reduced to this?

A glutton with all kinds of twisted lust in his heart.

He speared a bit of honeyed tart and swallowed it greedily, barely sparing time to chew. His stomach ached with protest, but he ignored it. The sun was shining across the gold and marble floors, and he needed to hurry if he wanted to be strapped into his armor and waddle out to see to business before noon. Annoyed, Sebastian dropped the gold fork and snagged a pastry, eating the whole thing in two clean bites. He was already grabbing another before he’d even swallowed, pressing it to his lips before the pain of the first could register. That, he’d discovered, was the best way to make his way through his duty: with absolute drive and determination, one hand massaging his ever-bloating gut, the other shoveling food mindlessly into his face, letting it pack him tighter and tighter and tighter until not even the soft jiggle of fat was apparent along his gut and stretching sides.

He was nothing but pure determination, but drive, but aching flesh and straining skin—and then, suddenly, there was a sharp rap on his door.

Sebastian paused, next-to-final pastry to his lips, mouth full. He glanced toward the door, confused, as one of his servants scurried over. It was unusual for anyone to bother him when he was at his mandatory meals. Maker knew the palace staff was all too desperate to see him stuffed like a prized hog to bring glory to the Vael name—they wouldn’t intrude on his begrudging fattening for just anything.

There were whispers at the door, traded back and forth. Sebastian tried to listen, philosophically swallowing the pastry before snagging the last one. It was his _very_ favorite, pistachio and cream and sinful on his tongue. He let his plush thighs spread wider, making room for the settling of his inflated gut, waiting to hear the news.

Sebastian was licking his fingers clean, fastidious about tidiness as ever, when the servant slipped back to his bedside, the golden door sliding shut with a nearly inaudible _snikt_. His eyes were downcast and his brows were drawn together in either worry or confusion.

Not good news, then.

“What has happened?” Sebastian asked. He had to hide another discrete burb behind his fist, grateful for the tiny sliver of extra room that made in his stomach. It must have begun to stretch again; he was pretty sure he could have managed one or even two more bites before giving up in failure.

The servant hesitated, and Sebastian let himself relax back fully against the pillows as the tray was taken away. From this angle, all he saw of himself was soaring belly, rising high and proud above him. He felt so fat he could barely be bothered to move. “Whatever news you have,” Sebastian said, “you shouldn’t fear telling me. I won’t fly into a rage like the men you used to serve.”

The servant flushed and nodded once. “Ah…you have a visitor, my liege,” he said in a near-whisper. “He refuses to give his name, and refuses to wait the traditional three days for an audience. He would see you _now_.”

Sebastian went still, hand frozen mid-stroke down his naked belly. “A…visitor, you say?” he repeated.

“Yes, my liege.”

“Can you describe this man to me?”

The servant flicked up his eyes, then dropped them respectfully again. “He is tall, my liege. Dark of hair, with a black beard and brown eyes.”

His heart sank with dread. “Does he have…” Sebastian mimed a mark across the bridge of his nose, and very nearly cursed when the servant nodded.

_Hawke_.

Finally, after all this time, _Hawke_ had come to see him. When Sebastian was no longer the trim, idealistic holy man he’d once known; when he’d become _this_ , flabby and dissolute, blooming as if with a malignant pregnancy—barely able to struggle up into sitting, he was so over-stuffed. “I,” Sebastian managed, pushing himself up by will alone. His stomach protested, sloshing and aching, and servants leaped forward to help him swing a fat thigh free of the clinging sheet, then another. He swerved, actually gripping his belly with both hands to help draw himself around, letting it rest in the soft hollow of his thighs as he caught his breath and chased his racing thoughts. Hawke. Here. _Hawke_. _Here_. “I need you to bring me my armor,” he said. “Someone go down and tell Hawke I am… I am indisposed, but I’ll be with him presently.”

He needed to wait out some of this overstuffed gut before they saw each other again, that was certain. A few hours should help him at least digest most of what was inside him, and while the armor was more…shapely than it used to be, at least cold steel would mask the worst of abundant flesh.

Sebastian snapped his fingers for his robe, even as he looped his arms around two servants, letting them help him up to his feet. The belly rose before him like the prow of a ship, flushed red with shame and overindulgence. His gilt-lined white loincloth settled beneath it, fluttering over his privates, and all of him shuddered just a little as he took carefully supported steps, regaining his balance.

It was a tricky thing, finding his feet against after a feasting, but he was determined enough that he managed to slip free of the helpful shoulders after just a few minutes. “Here, yes, thank you,” Sebastian said, snagging the silky robe from gentle hands and struggling into it. He took a wide, waddling step toward his vanity, trying to pull the robe closed over the swollen front of him, flustered and red-cheeked and dying a little inside as he couldn’t…quite…manage to make its ends meet.

Only to groan aloud when the door was flung open with a resounding _bang_ , an all-too-familiar form filling it. Gorgeous and dark and grinning wicked welcome—temptation made flesh. Except Hawke’s flesh was exactly as Sebastian remembered it, while _his_ …

The robe fluttered open between nerve-dulled fingers, revealing the full, gravid shape of him. The corpulent, hedonistic, fat prince, staring with dreadful shock at the man he once loved and rebuffed—Hawke staring back with rapidly arching brows, his eyes going wider and wider as he looked the Prince of Starkhaven up and down every long, slow, curvaceous inch.

No one spoke. No one moved. No one made a sound lest it break the spell.

Then, smile curving up one corner of his mouth, gaze raking over the most obviously prominent part of him, Hawke said: “Well. It looks like _you’ve_ been doing well for yourself, Sebastian.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could possibly be convinced to do more in this universe. Hedonistic, bloated, kinky-as-hell Sebastian is surprisingly fun.


	4. Cozy (Nathaniel/Anders; weight gain)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: If you're up for it, I'd love something where an ex (preferably Nathaniel, if you're Into That, but I could take a m!Hawke happily) tracks Anders down post-DA2 and discovers he's distinctly plumper than he was when they were together? Maybe in a cozy Ferelden clinic with a cat; maybe in some lush Tevinter villa being petted and fed tidbits...I am down for pretty much any/all of your yesses (maybe no revenge?) but I'd probably prefer a gain somewhere in the 100 lb range, and I'm very into the tight clothes/embarrassment.

“Oh, you want the healer,” the farmer said, scratching his chin. “He’s up that’a way, through the field and past the grove, nestled square up in the hollow. Can’t miss him.”

_Can’t miss him_. Nathaniel shook his head darkly as he all but stalked through the gathering twilight. He’d been on his feet since before sunrise—had been marching grimly through the war-torn lands long before then—and even his Warden stamina was beginning to flag. His shoulders ached from carrying so much tense awareness, his side was on fire thanks to a blow he hadn’t seen coming ( _damned_ rogue Templars), and the blisters on his feet no doubt had blisters of their own by now.

And still, _still_ , he hadn’t found the damned man.

“Through the field,” Nathaniel said to himself, keeping his voice quiet out of habit. He’d taken to talking to himself now and again, he’d been traveling away from other Wardens so long. “Past the grove. Well I’m bloody well past it, aren’t I?”

In fact, he’d left the grove behind almost a full hour ago and he _still_ hadn’t caught sign of the man he was hoping would turn out to be Anders. Not only that, but an unexpected skirmish between frightened mages and local brutes had broken out just as he was passing through; Nathaniel had been honor-bound to stop and lend aid, only to have _both sides_ turn around and attack him once they were through hacking at each other. The whole world had gone mad; it was enough to make him want to draw his bow and start firing indiscriminately at anyone he passed.

He didn’t, of course—he had more self-control than that—but things didn’t bode well for maybe-Anders when he _finally_ stumbled across those oh-so obvious signs of the ponce.

Nightbirds began to call to one another softly as the moon rose higher. It was past twilight now, sinking steadily into night. The mountains framed the starlight, jagged thrusts of rock breaking up the sky into frames, like a triptych. And in the distance…was that a light?

Nathaniel automatically turned toward it, jerking his pack higher on his shoulder. It grew larger and larger as he approached, welcoming warmth spreading across the chilly night. The little cottage stood in the middle of absolutely bloody fucking nowhere, its door thrown wide in mocking welcome. There was a little chicken coop to one side, and a patch of farmland. Animals bleated welcome as Nathaniel moved closer, and he was already certain this mage—this healer—this man, whoever he was, couldn’t possibly be Anders. The Anders he knew had been too lazy and capricious to till the land and tend to livestock.

But then Nathaniel noticed the other cottages dotting the hillside further back, more farmland stretching as far as he could see, more animals loaming about. And as he drew nearer the house, he spotted a suspiciously small shape in the dim. It turned as he stepped near, fennec-shaped but with eyes that glowed like copper coals in the dark. When he paused to puzzle it out, the dark shape _meowed_.

“A cat?” he said, then jerked his chin up to stare at the open doorway, still thirty or more feet away. The presence of a cat didn’t automatically signal _Anders_ , but it was suddenly more likely than it had been just five minutes ago.

Nathaniel paused by the little feline (black, young) and crouched long enough to scritch behind its ears. The cat purred and rubbed against his fingers, friendly and obviously tame. It didn’t look like it subsisted off the land, coat glossy and sides comfortably fed.

“Good…little…creature,” he said, awkward with affection even for something that small and innocent. He cleared his throat and stood, continuing on toward the house. Not six feet in, _another_ small feline darted across his path, a third giving chase. He scanned the house and spotted a four sitting in the bright fire-lit window; a fifth jumped up in seconds in join it, batting at its brothers ears with a patchwork paw. A sixth, seventh, _eighth_ watched him approach the cottage with judging gazes, and by now Nathaniel was more than certain what he would find inside that house.

Any tall, golden-haired apostate healer could have had one cat—perhaps even two. But it struck Nathaniel as a folly unique to Anders to try to save _eight or more_ , and he was actually smiling despite himself as he moved up the cobblestone path to the welcoming cottage door, already relaxing with the certainty that friends were near.

A fire was roaring in the hearth and he could hear the sound of a metal kettle being hung on its hook. A man was humming to himself—a familiar Warden tune that banished any remaining doubt. Nathaniel scuffed his feet on the stone threshold as he stepped just past the door, trying to announce himself…though really, unless Anders had managed to lose every bit of his training since the last time they’d met, he should have heard him coming by now.

“I had wondered where you’d gone off to,” Nathaniel said to the figure leaning over the fire, back to him. The firelight threw strange shadows, playing off the folds of Anders’ ridiculously large robes, making him look like a much stouter man than Nathaniel knew him to be. “It _is_ bloody like you to squirrel yourself away in the middle of nowhere after everything.”

Anders froze, one hand on the kettle hook, half-bent over the fire. The two cats on the windowsill meowed in open curiosity, watching the two old friends face off. They needn’t have worried, Nathaniel figured dryly. Years may have separated them, but he still felt an incredible fondness for the man who had been his lover. Some nights, he still wondered if he might still be in love; though of course, that was impossible, considering how little of himself Anders had ultimately been willing to give.

Still, Anders said nothing. He did not move.

Nathaniel cleared his throat. “I had not thought to find time had made you shy,” he said, his voice coming out rougher than he intended.

“…how did you find me?” Anders asked, tipping his head just enough that Nathaniel could see the ghost of his profile—the dark brows, the prominent nose, the hint of stubble.

“I’ve been looking since I received word,” he explained. “The rest of the Wardens are all acting strange, and I…felt compelled to find you instead. To…make certain you were all right.” It was all bloody well more romantic than he would have wanted to allow, but there was no helping it. It was the _truth_. Nathaniel had been driven by the desire to find Anders and defend him against everyone and everything who would have harmed him in the wake of the world going mad.

He let out a harsh breath, annoyed with himself for the way his heart twisted. “Maker’s breath, Anders, can’t you at least look at me?” he demanded. “After you left without a word, after you melded with _Justice_ and fled, after you—” _Didn’t tell me._

Anders closed his eyes, then sighed and straightened. “I’m sorry,” he said, turning—a little awkwardly, a little shyly, which was nothing like the Anders Nathaniel remembered. “It _is_ good to see you, Nate.”

Nathaniel opened his mouth to reply, but the words dried on his tongue. He blinked at Anders once, twice, as if somehow he could reorient his blurring vision. Except there was nothing wrong with his vision—there was something wrong with _Anders_. No, not wrong: different.

Very, very different.

The man he had known had been tall and lithe and obnoxiously gorgeous in his Tevinter-inspired robes. Too much flesh visible, too many smiles spreading across his mouth, earring catching Nathaniel’s eye even as his slim hips eventually caught his hands…his hungry mouth swallowed his moans.

Later, he’d heard tales of the Anders-and-Justice who lived in Kirkwall—still tall, but gaunt, swathed in dingy grey robes, wearing himself to death working for his cause.

This…

This man…

This man was _plump_. Soft. _Straining_ against clothing that was obviously two sizes too small for him, gaps of flesh appearing between the buttons that lined his robe from collar to groin. What Nathaniel had seen from behind and assumed was too-big robes, folds hiding Anders’ body, was actually Anders himself. Those folds in the cloth were… _love handles_? Little rolls of plush fat lining his back and spreading out from what had always been narrow hips.

Nathaniel stared, trying to reorient his brain around his version of Anders. His face was still remarkably narrow despite the little hint of a second chin, but the rest of him was the body of a man who dined often and dined well. His plump hands fluttered over the round pooch of his stomach, as if he could somehow hide it from view. His hips were as wide as many women’s Nathaniel had bedded—wider, perhaps, than some. If he could see Anders’ thighs beneath the skirt of his robe, he was certain they would be touching.

This was all…so very unexpected.

“I,” Nathaniel began, uncertain what to say. “You are…”

Anders sighed and scrubbed at his face. “You may as well come out and say it,” he said. “ _Anders, you are fat_. I know. Nearly a hundred pounds or so over my highest weight.” He pressed a hand over his stomach again, cheeks flaming hot. When he took a breath, the buttons on his robe creaked in protest, flashing crescents of skin. “It turns out the best way to keep Justice dormant is to give in to Gluttony. He and I have become good friends this last year.”

“Oh,” Nathaniel said, _still_ uncertain what to say. The Anders he had known had been vain, that vanity hiding all his rage at the Templars, the world. It was almost inconceivable to imagine him…soft. Gone to pot. Gone to seed. All the little euphemisms for the belly rolling forward from his body, the widened hips, the thicker arms.

Nathaniel swallowed heavily. “Well. You look good,” he finally settled on, and it wasn’t until he said the words that he realized he meant them.

Anders flushed darker. “You don’t have to feed my vanity,” he said—then barked a laugh. “ _Feed_. Maker. You don’t have to do that either; I do it well enough myself.” He gestured to his softened body, mocking himself—almost as if he wanted to beat Nathaniel to the punch. As if he assumed Nathaniel would take him to task for letting himself get so fat, when really, all Nathaniel found he wanted to do was…

…touch. He wanted to reach out and put his hand on that soft, round belly. He wanted to stroke it with bow-calloused fingertips and watch the way it quivered. He wanted to pet Anders like an overfed cat and make him purr, and good Maker, had he lost his damned _mind_?

While Nathaniel was staring, shocked at the sideways direction of his thoughts, Anders was moving to get a second glass. “…tea,” he was saying. “It’s the least I can do for you, after you’ve come such a long way. And you can tell me what you’ve been up to all these years while I—”

Anders reached up to a high shelf to grab what Nathaniel had to assume was a tin of tea leaves. His overtaxed robe groaned at the stretch, those crescents of flesh widening in warning, and Nathaniel would have said something if, at that moment, Anders’ robe hadn’t decided to give up the ghost.

_Pop_! _Pop pop pop!_

One after the other after the other the straining buttons went flying off, scattering across the floor in a soft rain. The two cats startled up in fear, streaking away as buttons skittered and Anders’ robe gaped open and his soft belly spilled forward— _round_ and pale and covered with adorable freckles. His chest was flabby, thick enough to bite, and his sides spilled over his hips in a surprisingly deep roll. Plush, soft, pillowy fat, enough to make Nathaniel think so many unexpectedly filthy things about jerking Anders onto his hardening cock and fucking up into him—making Anders bounce and quiver atop his own Warden-hardened body.

Anders was frozen, belly out, exposed, vulnerable and big and soft. He slowly lowered his arms, bringing the tin of tea leaves with him. His cheeks were a furious red, and he couldn’t seem to meet Nathaniel’s eyes for mortification.

“Oh,” he said, one hand fluttering down to cover himself. It only somehow made him look all the bigger. “ _Knickerweasles_.”


	5. A Trick of Crows (Zevran/Isabela: weight gain, belly kink)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i would DEFINITELY be into reading about a fat ontherun!zevran (the bigger the better). he's not featured nearly often enough in wg kink fics :')
> 
> not too picky about ships, but isabela/zevran would be adorable.

The elf cocked his head. “Now that our dirty business is done,” he said, “I am thinking that a night of celebration is in order.”

Hawke snorted. “Why do I have the feeing that with you, a night of celebration is always in order?”

He cocked his hip, one hand pressed to his chest in the picture of innocence. “You _wound_ me,” Zevran said—but the bright sparkle in his eye said something completely different. “Come. I will even buy the first round. Especially if it will help convince our pretty pirate friend to join us.”

They started walking along the shore, back toward the city—Zevran fastidiously cleaning his blades before sheathing them on either side of his trim elven hips.

“That’s the fifth time you’ve mentioned Isabela today. I have a feeling,” Hawke mused, “that you’re sweet on her.”

“Well then,” Zevran said with a quirk of his brow. “Who am I to deny such incredible insight?”

**

They made good time, and Zevran disappeared within sight of the city— _literally_ disappeared, padding away with a whisper about seeing her at the Hanged Man. Hawke shrugged to herself and went about the usual sorting that happened after a big job: getting cleaned up, checking on her house and dog, changing into something a little more comfortable than plate mail.

By the time she’d rounded up a couple of her friends and headed to the Hanged Man, it was well into the night and she was more than ready for that promised drink. The only problem was, Zevran was nowhere to be seen.

“Hm,” Hawke said, scanning the bar with a frown. She spotted Isabela carrying a massive tray and hurried to join her, Merrill and Fenris trailing behind. “Oh, here, lemme help you with that,” she said, deftly shouldering half of it.

The drinks wobbled, but Isabela cast her a grateful smile. “Thanks, Hawke. That man’s Antivan to the core—he can put away more than anyone I know.”

“Is he…” Hawke glanced around, confused, “here?”

Isabela jerked her chin toward the stairs up to Varric’s room. “Even though the Crows aren’t breathing down his neck anymore, he figured it was time to lay low. Come on—this you’ll want to see.”

Bemused, Hawke helped Isabela carry the tray up the steps and into Varric’s room. She was so focused on getting everything settled that she barely paid attention to who was sitting ringed around the table. She caught a vague flash of blinding white (Sebastian), red-and-gold (Varric), and a deep green that she could only assume was Zevran. Except…

Hawke paused, then tipped her head to actually _look_ at Zevran. Her jaw dropped as she straightened in surprise, taking an automatic step back—very nearly bowling over Merrill, who squeaked and darted out of the way. Isabela, the hussy, just _laughed_.

Hawke didn’t pay her any mind. She was too busy staring at the elf indolently sprawled in a pair of chairs, his brows arched in visible amusement. He was the man she’d spent the last few days with hunting Crows, yet at the same time, he was someone completely new, completely alien.

Because Zevran? Was _fat_.

No. No, not just fat, but _incredibly_ fat. Beyond obese and into something Hawke wasn’t sure she had words for. Seated, he looked like a melting mountain of a man, round, tanned cheeks leading to a heavy second chin, which folded into the promise of a third. Thick, stocky shoulders and round arms as big as her own thigh thrust out from his body at what should have been an awkward angle thanks to the tumbling rolls ringing his sides. The tent-like green shirt hugged each one intimately, revealing how they flowed one into the other into the other, growing bigger and bigger as they met his giant hips and mammoth belly. _It_ rested full in the cradle of fat thighs, pushing them apart with its weight to hang down between dimpled knees. Pillowy breasts topped that marshmallow gut, and _what in the void was going on?_

Isabela was still cackling as she grabbed two tankards and circled around the table. She handed one to the obscenely fat man taking up the entire far end of Varric’s table, crawling into what remained of his lap to drape around the massive swell of his belly. The way she stroked it made Zevran smile—and set him to jiggling.

“I don’t understand what is happening,” Hawke said.

“Magic,” Fenris muttered, taking a tankard and a seat. He glowered down the table at the two.

Merrill hummed. “Could be!” she said. “There are demons who’ll do that for you, if you’d like.” She leaned forward in her seat, eyes widening. “Did you meet a gluttony demon, Zevran? Was he very nice?”

Zevran waved off Fenris’s protests, the hanging folds of fat swaying gently, almost mesmerically. “It is a form of magic, yes, but there were no demons—my friend, you really should work on your anger,” he tsked. “Hawke, sit. Drink with us. It is not so very strange after all, I assure you.”

“He’s lying through his teeth,” Isabela said, playfully cupping one of Zevran’s breasts and giving it a squeeze. “It’s wonderfully strange—even better if you’re there to see the change. Talk about a trick you’ll never forget.”

“A trick I learned from the Crows,” he added when Hawke simply stood there, still staring. Still dumbfounded. “Disguise can only fool so much if a man cannot change his height. His face. His body.” He reached down to give the huge expanse of his belly a pat, other arm tightening around Isabela’s waist. “When I leave here, I will have a new face to go with this form, and no one will stare at the Crow in their midst. Well,” he added with a wry chuckle, “they will stare, but they will not see the assassin that walks among them, yes? Who ever looks at a man so fat and thinks him a threat? People are fools in this way.”

Hawke pushed back a chair and sank into it hard, still staring. It was impossible to reconcile the small, slim elf she’d seen not a few hours ago with this mountain of a man—easily six times or more Zevran’s original size, fatter than anyone Hawke had ever seen. It was a wonder that he could walk, his belly hung so low; it would slap his knees every time he took a waddling step. “But wait, wait,” she said. Isabela was leaning in to kiss Zevran’s thick neck, one hand still fondling his breast; it overflowed her fist easily. She looked positively dainty in comparison, and Hawke wondered if that was the appeal. She wondered if she would bed him tonight—whether he would serve as her bed. She wondered if ‘Bela would even be able to find a prick under all that gut. (She wondered, horrified, why she was even thinking such a thing.)

Zevran arched a brow. The others were completely silent, no one quite knowing where to look. That seemed to amuse the pair even more—Hawke had a feeling that if the group didn’t find its footing soon, the exhibitionist in each of them would be kicked into high gear. She might find out, whether she wanted to or not, exactly how Isabela planned on bedding a man so wide around there was no possible way his arms could rival the circumference of his belly.

“You had a question, yes?” Zevran asked when she didn’t say anything, too struck by the image.

Hawke fought to refocus. “I just,” she said, “I mean… I just wanted to know…” And then she sighed and leaned forward, arms crossed over the table, utterly frank. “Look: is _this_ the real you, or was that you before? Without all the…” There was no way to end that sentence well.

Zevran? Just _laughed_. And winked. “A Crow’s secrets are his own, I am afraid,” he said, hoisting Isabela higher up against his mountainous bulk, utterly unconcerned what the rest of them thought of him…which was somehow sexy despite the massive change from one extreme to the other.

She grabbed a drink and took a sudden, deep, desperate pull. She wasn’t going to think about the sudden urge to get drunk enough to see if her best friend and the hugely fat elf wanted to explore some of those questions she had in deeper depth. No, no she was not. She was not going to think about what it would be like to trade kisses with Isabela over Zevran’s nearly immobile form, to run her hands over miles and miles of plush flesh, to drag his belly up and use her warrior’s strength to hold it clear so Isabela could throw a dark thigh across his hips—

Fuck. _No_. She wasn’t thinking those kinds of crazy things for even a _moment._ “Fair enough,” Hawke sputtered, coughing, instead, and did her level best to spend the rest of the night not staring, and wondering, and…yes, imagining.


	6. Little Indulgences (Cassandra, Leliana, and Josephine: weight gain)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: After the events of Trespasser, Cassandra relaxes and gets encouragement from Leliana and Josephine to get bigger as it clearly makes her happy. / Leliana and Josephine pamper Cassandra over a period of years.

“I came to tell you I could not possibly join you tonight,” Cassandra said in stiltingly formal language. She looked awkward and out of place standing there in full regalia, plate mail gleaming in the candlelight. “I have to give my regrets.”

Leliana and Josephine shared a look; Josephine reached over and unearthed a third glass, already filling it with wine. “It is too bad you cannot stay, Cassandra,” she said, setting the full glass in front of the third seat.

“It is not often we are given a chance to all three relax our guards, no?” Leliana added, smoothly filling a plate with tiny Orlesian delicacies. She slid it in front of the waiting seat, smile wide and seemingly guileless.

Cassandra hesitated.

“I can’t think of a time in recent memory,” Josephine added in agreement. “Can you?”

“…we are at war,” Cassandra said.

Leliana waved that off. “We will be at war tomorrow, too,” she said. “Tonight, for once, the war can wait. _Corypheus_ can wait. Gossip and drinking cannot.” She took a sip from her own half-full glass, subtly kicking the empty chair back away from the table in welcome.

The warrior hesitated on the threshold, looking torn…then sighed and unstrapped her sword and shield, setting both aside. “I suppose,” she said haltingly, “it would not hurt to relax our guard every now and again. _Sparingly_.”

“ _Of course,_ ” Leliana teased. “You can ask Josephine: we always indulge _most_ sparingly _.”_

“Here,” Josephine added, snagging a pair of filigree tongs and transferring a few extra treats to Cassandra’s plate. “You must try these: the Orlesians make the dearest little cakes.”

Leliana reclined back, more boneless than usual—one arm slung over the back of her chair, a coy smile curving her lips. “Here’s to Orlesians,” she said, lifting her glass in a toast, “and their delicious gossip, their delicious wine, and their delicious little cakes.”

“And to friends,” Josephine added, taking up the toast. She inclined her head toward Cassandra. “Both new and old.”

“To…small indulgences,” Cassandra agreed, awkwardly clinking her glass to theirs, still not quite certain she belonged. (Willing, at least, to give _fitting in_ her all.)

**

“Next time,” Cassandra said a couple of months later, “no armor.”

“Three cheers to that!” Leliana said. She was already flushed with drink, eyes somehow both glassy and sharp at once. _She’d_ had the sense not to wear her usual garb. Instead, she was dressed in a simple white shift-dress, slit just enough at the thighs that she could move quick and agile if necessary.

Josephine, of course, was still bedecked in satin ruffles: not even _relaxing_ could take that away from her. “Here, Cassandra,” she said, re-filling Cassandra’s plate for her. They’d stuck with Orlesian treats all the times they’d gathered for their nights of little indulgences, but the menu had expanded to include other finger foods. All highly decorative and surprisingly rich. “You _must_ try these. The ambassador brought me a supply last time he was here, and I’m _addicted_. Please take them away from me before I eat them all.”

Cassandra accepted her plate, brows knit. “And why shouldn’t you eat them all if they give you such pleasure?” she demanded. “You work hard.”

“We _all_ work hard,” Leliana agreed. “You _both_ should eat whatever you want.”

Josephine just laughed. “Not all of us have your freakish metabolism, Leliana,” she said, giving her stomach a little pat. “ _Or_ ,” she added, tipping her head toward Cassandra, “your iron will.”

Cassandra took a bite of one of the little tarts, tasting rich— _rich_ —chocolate on her tongue, mingled with something sharp and cistrusy. It was gone in a swallow, but the incredible taste lingered. “These are,” Cassandra began, startled…then cleared her throat when both women looked at her. “That is to say, eat what you want. Wasn’t it you who said relaxing the rules from time to time could not hurt you?”

“She has a point there, Josie,” Leliana said.

Josephine smiled. “She does at that. Well. A few more won’t hurt, I suppose…”

**

“…and then _he_ said he’d never even been to Starkhaven, much less her ladyship’s bed!” Josephine said, finishing the salacious story with a wicked grin.

Leliana and Cassandra glanced at each other before erupting into drunken giggles. It was late, and most of Skyhold was long asleep. The three of them had gathered for another of their now-traditional tete-a-tetes, but that had been _hours_ ago. If Cassandra had any sense in her, she’d formally say goodnight to her friends and go to sleep.

Instead, she lounged back on the soft couch, luxuriating in the feel of silk (silk! As if she were Cassandra the Lady instead of Cassadra the Dragon-slayer) against her skin as she nibbled at her plate of confections and drained another glass of good wine.

“Hmm,” Leliana said, head tipped back. She was practically melting in place, eyes closing, at least two glasses deeper into her cups than either of them. “I would believe him. His—” She hiccupped, once, shoulder shaking with the force. “His _lordship_ isn’t much found outside the beds of other men, after all. Maker, why did you let me drink so much, Josie?”

Josephine nudged Leliana’s thigh with a bare foot. “It is good for you,” she said, teasingly. “We all need to let go now and again.”

Leliana snorted. “I am _nothing_ if not let gone right now.”

“Good. Oh,” Josephine added as she reached into one of the many tins littering the coffee table. She frowned. “Are there no more macaroons?”

Cassandra looked up from her nearly empty plate. “…I did not think you wanted more,” she said. In fact, she hadn’t really thought at all. “I could go to the kitchens and—”

Josephine just waved her off. “No, no, it’s fine. I shouldn’t anyway.” She glanced around as if searching the candlelit room for spies, then leaned forward with a drunken, conspiratorial whisper. “Can I tell you something?” Both Cassandra and Leliana leaned closer to hear. “I had to let out _all_ my dresses.”

“No!” Leliana said, pulling back. “Are you getting fat, Josie?”

“Maker, let’s hope not.”

Cassandra looked Josephine over with a curious, more critical eye. It was true that the ruffled satin dress she now wore fit slightly more bountiful curves than it used to when they first began this tradition going on half a year ago. The ambassador must have put on roughly fifteen, twenty pounds judging by the subtle bulges, yet: “It doesn’t matter,” Cassandra said firmly. Both Josephine and Leliana looked at her, brows arched. “We work hard. This is our one night of indulging.” No matter that this one night happened a lot more often than it used to. “You deserve this. Here,” she added, beginning to grab up half-empty tins of treats and passing them over to Josephine in a no-nonsense way. “You deserve all of this. We all deserve all of this. Eat whatever you want. Drink,” she added to Leliana, “whatever you want.”

Josephine cocked her head. “And you?” she asked.

Cassandra looked down with a scowl, sword-roughened hands folded in her lap, aware of that soft silk clinging to her skin. Aware of the life of the sword she’d promised herself to. “I will do both,” she declared, almost like a vow.

And she couldn’t help the smile that broke across her face when Josephine and Leliana gave a friendly (if drunken) cheer.

**

She took a bit of something sweet—another—another, washing it down with a swallow of wine. Her head spun pleasantly, and her cheeks were flushed with drink and pleasure: Josephine was telling another of her stories.

Cassandra reached for another treat, pausing briefly at the pull of the silk dress against her stomach. It was tighter than it should have been. In fact, it had been getting increasingly tighter each time she came over the past few months.

 _I shouldn’t_ , she thought, sitting back again, one hand folding over the slope of her belly. It was puffed out, packed full of all kinds of little indulgences. If she wasn’t careful, she could…

What? Put on a little weight? It was nothing she couldn’t work off. Besides, this was _their_ night, and those kinds of thoughts had no place here.

 _I shouldn’t,_ Cassandra thought, grimly reaching forward and filling her plate. _But I will anyway._

**

“I am sorry I am late,” Cassandra said, hurrying into the room, stomach jigging subtly with each step. The silk dress was stretched so tight over her ever-softening belly and flaring hips that the dark gash of her belly button was clearly visible. The thin material clung unforgivingly to the little muffin top blooming over her smalls, highlighting the straining gut that pooched out every time she took a breath. “I was detained in the hall.”

Josephine gently waved off the apology. “Things are hectic now that Corypheus is gone,” she said. “There are nobles rushing to fill the voids left in the confusion. Besides, we would not start without you.”

“Josie lies,” Leliana added, curled up in a chair, drink between her hands. “We started the moment we got here.”

Josephine tsked at Leliana, but Cassandra just laughed. “Well, then I will just have to catch up,” she said, carelessly sprawling into her usual seat. She leaned forward to grab her dish. “In fact, I—”

 _Riiiiiip_.

All three women froze at the sound of cloth rending. Slowly, carefully, Cassandra straightened. Her hips and belly felt cooler than they should, almost as if…

Leliana snorted a laugh. “Oh, Cassandra, it was about time,” she said.

Cheeks hot with mortification, Cassandra stared down her long-time friend. “ _What_?” she demanded, one hand flying to the rip. It ran high, all the way up to her waist. Plump, pale skin poured out of the opening, and she felt a moment of intense shame.

Maker, she’d been aware that her clothing—her armor—her everything had been growing uncomfortably tight, but had it really gotten this bad?

Josie shook her head. “Leliana, don’t,” she said, but Leliana was still laughing—good-naturedly, with an unexpected warmth.

“Cassandra, don’t worry about it,” she said. “The war is over, and stress is somehow even higher than before. We’ve _all_ been going through a few changes. Besides,” she added, eyes dancing, “you’ve been nothing but a stuffed sausage in that thing for _months_ now.”

“Leliana!” Josephine snapped.

Cassandra waved her off. Heat was still suffusing her face, but something about Leliana’s casual acceptance made that sick clench of horror deep in her gut begin to fade. Perhaps she was even right: it had been a long, hard road to get here, and now nobles and mages and Templars and Wardens were all trying to drive them mad. In light of all they had survived, a little bit of weight gain was perfectly normal. To be expected, really. Nothing to worry over.

They all deserved these little indulgences…right?

“It is all right, Josephine,” Cassandra said. She flattened a hand against the spill of soft flesh, then subtly stroked her fingers across the rounded bulge of her stomach. What would Varric say in a moment like this? What would Leliana say? Dorian?

Then, inspiration striking, Cassandra leaned back, ignoring the proud little arc of her belly (belly button outlined clearly in silk that was, yes, perhaps more than a little too tight now), and said, “Though if I had a backside like hers, I would not dare to throw stones.”

Leliana gaped at her; Josephine sucked in a surprised breath. Then, all at once, as if by some spell, the three women burst into peals of laughter.

Cassandra did not think of her weight again for some time.

**

Cassandra—no, _Victoria_ —stared herself down in her full-length mirror as her Left and Right hands brought the official raiments of office. She was in her underthings, breastband struggling to hold the heavy weight of her breasts, a roll of flesh spilling over the hem of her smalls.

She dropped a beringed hand down to cover her stomach, flushing as she felt how big and soft it had become. No, there was no calling it a _stomach_ now: her _belly_ pushed out in soft flab, sticking out from her body in a heavy slope.

Her thighs were thicker now, muscular but…stocky. Her hips were wide enough to more than fill the Divine’s chair. Compared to Justinia, Victoria felt indecently fat; squirming into those tiny gilt seats was a matter of holding her breath and praying to the Maker.

“I have become fat,” she said as her Left Hand stepped up behind her, tightening the breastband into something approaching decency. Victoria gave her belly a hard slap, watching with a curled lip as it jiggled. “Fatter. You two are making me _fatter_.”

Her Right Hand simply hummed and lifted the oft-let-out chemise, encouraging Victoria to wriggle her way into it. The Right Hand’s hips were nearly as wide as Victoria’s, and despite her otherwise seemingly slim form, a healthy, impressively tight gut pushed out her roguish leathers.

“You are healthy,” her plump Left Hand said, slipping rings onto Victoria’s plump fingers. There was a struggle to push them past the knuckle, little folds of fat forming around the metal. “Besides, the world marches on whether you are fat or not.”

“ _You_ may not be marching,” her Right Hand added with a smirk, pinching a good inch of flesh at the Divine’s side before letting go; Victoria took a swipe at her. “But the world? Just so.”

Victoria sighed. “Just so,” she said, rubbing her soft, growing gut again. It was already straining against her chemise; too many more girls’ nights and she’d need them let out again.

… _ah well_ , Victoria thought, watching her plump friends-slash-attendants help squeeze her into her robes of state, feeling her traitorous body jiggling lightly around her, feeling the sheer _weight_ settled like an anchor. _I suppose there’s no shame in a few little indulgences._


	7. Howling (Alistair/vague f!Warden: belly kink, weight gain, beer gut)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Your stories are great! May I have the tale of drunk!Alistair's ever expanding beer belly? I'd really like a solo bit where Alistair has difficulty wanking due to how bloated his gut is but I'm cool with any pairings.

The first swallow went down all wrong, making him choke and hack against the unfamiliar strong liquor. He was in the first seedy bar he’d stumbled across, still exhausted from the road and shaken from his speedy exile. _Shaking_ with a kind of fury he just couldn’t bury.

_Well_ , Alistair had thought, squinting his eyes against the awful sting. _Maybe I can drown it instead._

The serving wench slapped a hard hand across his back, nearly sending him sprawling forward into the puddles of stale ale soaking into the pitted table. “There now,” she said, laughing. She had four teeth per gum, and not very good ones at that. “This your first time getting your proper drink on then, lad?”

Alistair coughed and sputtered, and thought bitterly about all the other _firsts_ he’d had with Elis— With the Warden.

“Something like that,” he wheezed. Then, lifting the mostly-full glass, he added, “Bring me another. And keep them coming.”

He had a long way to go if he wanted to forget the dungheap that had become his life.

**

He’d never been terribly fond of spirits. Ale, sure, of course: everyone drank that. The occasional wine, at fancy parties he’d been forced to attend. But hard liquor? It wasn’t Alistair’s poison of choice.

Until he experienced the first intense high of pure, easy, weightless drunkenness. Hooting up at the moon, staggering down an unfamiliar street, he wasn’t the bastard son of anyone. He wasn’t a former Warden or a coward or a traitor or a-a- _whatever_ they were all calling him, the sods.

He was powerful—and pissing on a lamppost! That’s right. He fucking _hated_ lampposts now. Was going to piss all over all of them.

(The ability to black out and forget half the night, Alistair discovered, was the best invention man had ever made.)

**

“Looking good, soldier boy,” one of the girls purred, sliding a hand into his lap. His traitorous cock hardened up at once, aching between his thighs. “You got enough coin to buy a lonely girl a drink?”

The Warden had been lonely, before she’d been his. Now she belonged to all of bloody Ferelden—a hero. He heard her name everywhere, no matter how far he tried to run.

“I’ve got enough coin to get myself good and drunk,” Alistair said, gently pushing her hand aside. He reached down to adjust himself in tight leathers, ignoring her pout. “Speaking of: barkeep!”

**

The old Antivan matron tsked and wiped her glass.

“What?” Alistair slurred. He was slumped against a table, a litter of empty glasses around him. More than he used to collect; he was building up a tolerance, and it _sucked_. “What’er you _tssssking_ about?”

“I was just thinking, my young friend,” she said, accent heavy; it reminded him of Zevran. “You are too young and pretty to waste yourself like this.”

“Pffft.” He rolled his head on his neck, swirling his latest glass of pure white liquor. It was thick and creamy and delicious—better than anything he’d had in a long time. For once the booze didn’t hurt going down, not even at first. (Still burned like a bitch coming up, though.) “M’not wasting anything. Having a perfectly good time with you right here. Another drink?” He fished out a coin to keep her from protesting.

The woman set down the clean glass and poured him another generous glass-full. She tutted as she brought it to him, setting it before his bleary eyes. “I know what I am talking of,” she said. “Your looks, they will not be there forever if you water them so thoroughly. Do you know what happens to bodies that drown?”

At his confused squint, she reached down and poked where he’d recently had to loosen the lacing along the sides of his leather armor; her bony finger dug into a diamond of flesh. “ _Bloat!_ ” she cackled, moving away when Alistair just slapped irritably at her hands and drained his glass.

**

Even in Antiva, he couldn’t escape news of the _Hero of Ferelden_. He started to make a drinking game out of it. Every time he heard her name, he downed his glass in a single swallow, no matter _what_ he was drinking.

Turned out, that was a good way to lose a whole month at a time.

Damned fine liquor, though.

**

“Aren’t you cold?” the woman—prostitute—whatever asked, swimming deeper into the lake. Alistair stood on the shore, awkwardly peeling off his armor, weaving on one leg, then the other. It hadn’t been fitting him right in what felt like forever, so the breastplate just popped off without a struggle. The rest, however…

“Too. Many. Buckles,” he complained, yanking at them—then laughing as they cracked open to reveal the tight grooves left across his skin. “Lookit here!” he called, lifting his arms over his head. Those muscles he’d spent his whole life gaining rippled with the motion; the starter belly he’d been steadily building toward thrust forward just a little more as he arched his back and howled up at the moon.

The woman shook her head. “Cold’s making your dick small,” she called out.

Alistair shrugged and kicked aside the last of his armor, scratching his little belly. “Then I guess someone’ll have to make it big again,” he said, belching mid-sentence. He laughed. “Sorry. That was rude.”

“Just get over here,” she said with rolling eyes, and he nearly fell over his own feet to oblige.

**

The day he couldn’t get his armor to fasten even on the loosest slot—even after he’d used a knife to add a few more holes for the metal buckle to go through—should have been a sobering day.

He was standing in some random tavern bedroom, hungover so bad each sound sent pain crashing through him. His hands kept fumbling over the latches and buckles, and no matter how hard he sucked in and squirmed around he—couldn’t—seem—to—get—it—to—fasten.

Alistair held his breath and sucked in tight and _squeezed_ , yanking the ends of his armor together, trying to flatten his (not quite as) little bely…only to let it go flying apart with a gusting breath, gut pushing forward, pecs just too meaty, armor _firmly_ too small for his bigger body.

He looked down, studying the way the leather breastplate poked out, mockingly far from closing, then sighed and shrugged and yanked the whole bloody thing off.

What did he need armor for, anyway? It wasn’t like he had anyone to fight anymore.

**

“Come on, then,” the young man purred, sliding his hand up Alistair’s dirty tunic and across his bloated belly. He’d been drinking for a good four hours now and feeling pretty happy with the world. “I’ll take you upstairs and let you wreck me as I call you _daddy_.”

He scratched his nails up the slope of Alistair’s beer gut and over his still rock-hard pecs.

“Daddy’s a little weird, don’t you think?” Alistair said, relaxing back into the young man’s touch. His dick was getting semi-hard, which was a minor achievement; he’d been having trouble lately, when he got really deep into his cups. “A little, ah, kinky?”

The young man leaned close and bit and earlobe. “I could put on shiny mail and let you call me the _Hero of Ferelden_ while you—”

Alistair didn’t even finish his drink.

**

What he needed, Alistair decided, grimly making his way into the mountains, was a place where _no one bloody talked about her_. Since that place didn’t exist, the closest he could come was the dwarven kingdom.

Thankfully, he’d helped put their current king on the throne, so they let him in after only a few hours trying to convince everyone that no, really, he was _that_ Alistair. (Funny that people he was pretty sure he’d met back then hardly recognized him.) He found himself a good bar in the dust district, he paid for a room for the next month—stuff it, the next _six_ months; he didn’t even want to think about going anywhere else for at least that long—and he parked himself at a table toward the back.

“Bring me a drink,” Alistair told the pretty dwarven waitress. He smiled his most charming smile.

She just looked him up and down askance. “What’re you drinking?”

Alistair tossed her a coin, and that bought a smile quick enough. “Whatever’s flowing the fastest,” he said.

**

The first week, he did nothing but drink.

**

The first month, he did nothing but drink.

**

The third month, he was forced to buy new clothes; his old pants had gone to rags about the waist, refusing to close. His shirt was split down the middle, buttonless, flapping like wings around the dome of his ever-growing belly.

“I need,” Alistair said, weaving on his feet. “I need something _comfortable_. I just want to be _comfortable_.”

The man at the store looked him up and down. “I can have it ready in the hour,” he said—and sure enough, when Alistair sauntered back into the bar, he was the proud owner of a loose sleeveless black shirt (cut low around the neck, with narrow bands over the shoulders to keep it on) and roomy pants with an honest-to-Maker drawstring.

He strutted to his table, feeling fancy, and lifted his round gut so he could slide into the booth with ease. The gut rested on the table now, big enough to make him embarrassed when he remembered to be embarrassed, but otherwise…

Maker’s tits, he was amongst dwarves. It wasn’t like they weren’t all a, uh, sturdy folk.

**

Five months in, he outgrew the booth.

More actually, he grew _into_ the booth. He’d taken to having meals with his booze, balancing out the two in a way that kept him from getting bored by how long it was taking to get drunk. The new clothes he’d been so proud of were straining every seam, even when he let the drawstring all the way out. That gut he’d rested atop the low dwarven table now took up an impressive amount of real estate: bloated up with food and liquor, it almost looked like he was late into some pregnancy, except there was nothing feminine about his belly. It was big, and it was round, and it was hard to the touch and covered with golden hair; familiar dwarves rubbed it as they passed, for good luck.

“I’m going to win me a fortune at tonight’s challenge,” an old friend he couldn’t seem to remember the name of told him, patting Alistair’s bloated dome lightly. “Wish me luck!”

Alistair downed the last of his beer and wiped the back of his mouth. “Here,” he said—slurred—whatever, standing, “I’ll come with you.”

Except when he tried to stand, he just jerked back down in his chair again.

Alistair blinked in confusion. He’d been drunk enough to fall face-first on the floor, sure, but this felt different. This was more like something was holding him in place. He started up again, only to topple back. Up. Down. Up. Down. The booth creaked around him as he struggled, wooden edge digging tight into the fat rolls that had formed around his hips.

“Some kind of spell’s keeping me in,” he panted, grabbing the edge of the table and trying to push it back. It wouldn’t budge; _he_ couldn’t budge. “Bloody void!”

The owner came bustling over, flapping a dish towel at him. “There’s no _spell_ here, you big oaf!” she snapped, catching Alistair’s hand as it flailed about. “You’re just gotten too fat, that’s all.”

“Too _fat_?” Alistair protested. He slumped back, huge, hard gut resting on the tabletop, thick thighs spread, pinned in place and helpless. “I can’t be too fat. I’m a Warden.”

“And I’m your mother’s arsehole,” the woman said. “Now stop struggling and let the lads help slide you out good and proper. We’ll set you up a new place come tomorrow, where you won’t get stuck.”

He huffed, even as the young dwarves moved to grab his meaty arms, tugging him carefully—painfully—awkwardly out of the bench seat. “I don’t—oof—need a special—ow!—seat,” he said. Then, with a sudden yank, he was pulled free, popping out like a cork from a bottle of wine. He stumbled, front-heavy, but caught himself with his hands on his knees, stomach hanging like a weight in front of him.

For one terrible, clear moment, Alistair saw himself—really _saw_ himself. Wide ass, meaty hips, bloated face, puffy chest, and big, round gut soaring out from his body. Maker, he really was fat, wasn’t he?

He pushed that thought away and straightened. “New table?” he asked, trying to grin past the mortification of outgrowing a bench. Whatever; it was dwarven anyway. Anyone would have gotten stuck. The Hero of Ferelden would have gotten stuck.

“New table,” he woman agreed, and lightly patted the stretched-out dome of his belly, as if his stomach and not Alistair were an old personal friend.

**

He lost track of how long he’d been in the dwarven kingdom, sitting in his new special chair and slowly widening to fit it. It must have been a very long time if he could use his own body as a timepiece. The gut that had once gotten him flailing and stuck now seemed _quaint_ in comparison to what he had now. The body that had failed him had morphed into something completely new.

By the time he left and returned to the surface, he couldn’t manage the open roads anymore. It took too much effort staying sober, and his legs weren’t used to carrying his weight. Instead, he hired wagons to carry him bouncing and belching across-country, then a boat to take him to Kirkwall. He’d been there once, early on in his journeys. He’d met a woman there; Hawke. Even an ocean of liquor couldn’t wipe her memory away.

He meant to clean up and go search her out by the time he landed, but he was already parched and _starving_ ; they really didn’t know how to feed a man on boats anymore. Alistair made his slow way to Lowtown and the Hanged Man, huge stomach bobbing in front of him like a proclamation for the man following a few feet behind. It was still stone-hard when full and not all that much softer when not, though gravity had dropped the proud crest of it just a little until he was forced into a bow-legged walk (or waddle, when he wasn’t paying attention.)

Of course, as luck would have it, he spotted her coming out of the Hanged Man just as he was going in—and yes, it was probably all kinds of fucked up that she looked so much like the Hero of Ferelden, and it was even more fucked up that this resemblance was likely why he kept thinking of her even after all these years, but the sight of her…

Maker’s breath, but Hawke was beautiful, laughing at something her just as gorgeous friend was saying, hair falling around her in a shimmer, eyes bright and body young and supple and hips swaying _just so_.

“Hullo!” Alistair said, giving an awkward wave.

Hawke looked at him—really looked at him—meeting his eyes with a quizzical tilt her head, not a glimmer of recognition on her face. “Hello,” she said. Then, stopping before him, “Did you need some help?”

The other woman, Isabela, caught Hawke’s arm and pulled. “Piss off!” she called to Alistair, dragging Hawke away. Then, not really lowering her voice, “Hawke, you don’t need to help every pathetic SOB who crosses your path.”

“Shh!” Hawke said, casting a single guilty look over her shoulder; she _still_ didn’t seem to recognize him. “He could hear you!”

“Not likely, sweetheart,” Isabela laughed. “The only thing that one hears is the clink of a glass, the scrape of a fork, and the sad whimper of his dick shriveling from disuse. I bet he hasn’t even found the ting in—”

Hawke clapped a hand over her mouth, and the two of them went haring off, teasingly shoving each other, handsy in a beautiful way: utterly unaware of who they’d just passed by.

Alistair frowned after them, then stared back at the door of the Hanged Man. He suddenly felt…strange. Alien in his own skin. He pushed inside, overwhelmed by the familiar-not-familiar presence, but instead of ordering a drink, instead he ordered a room.

**

He tried to sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come. Eventually he did go out and get pleasantly drunk, filling himself with enough watered ale and shitty foot that his belly ached. By the time he was back in his bed, he was flying high again…and increasingly horny.

It had been a long time since he’d felt like jerking off, but something about what Isabela said felt like a challenge. Well, then. Challenge accepted.

Alistair closed his eyes, picturing the way Hawke and Isabela had looked walking away from him. He slid his hands down, pinching his nipples, cupping his thick tits. He bunched them together, imagining he was holding a woman’s breasts—Hawke’s breasts. Thick and supple and sweet. If he squeezed them, she’d moan and arch toward him while Isabela, hey, why not, rubbed herself against his back.

Alistair moved his hands down, rubbing absent circles against his big, furred gut. It rose high, packed with food and drink, rosy-toned and bouncing a little as he thrust up his hips. He was hard and getting harder as he imagined kissing Hawke; stroking his tongue into her mouth even as he hooked his big fingers into her body. Rubbing against her heat.

He spread his legs wider, making room for his gut to settle. That one hand slid down to wrap thick fingers around his cock as Alistair imagined—

As he—

As—

Something wasn’t right.

He opened his eyes and lifted his head, staring down toward his cock. Or, rather, he stared down toward where his cock should be—he couldn’t see anything past the wide, subtly swaying dome of his beer gut. It defied gravity, flushed a deep pink and straining the skin, a map of stretch marks darting all across it. Fuck, he couldn’t even see the window past it unless he lifted his head and strained.

Alistair let out a puff of breath, patting his gut like the dwarves used to before reaching down to grab his…

His fingertips brushed the hard skin, just barely, but he couldn’t seem to get a grip.

“Maker’s…what?” Alistair said, squirming to try to get a better angle. His belly bobbed and swayed, pinning him to the bed as he strained and sweated, fighting to get a grip. He managed with a crow of triumph, but his hand slipped free as he tried to stroke, his _damned beer gut_ getting in the way.

Again and again, the very moment he thought he’d finally gotten a handle on things, he lost his grip and tempo and had to relax back, feeling, just, _huge_. Huge and fat, like he was nothing but belly.

_I’m a Warden_ , Alistair thought, grunting as he rolled over onto his side. He managed to sit up, belly resting in his lap, pressing against his hard cock. A tentative thrust up did little more than frustrate him, so he clambored up to his hands and knees, beer gut hanging down below him, swaying gently as he reached between his thighs and…

Nothing.

“I am a Warden,” he panted, trying again, managing finally to get a grip. If he twisted his hips and pushed his inflated gut out of the way—if he let it press against the mattress as he shifted and rutted—then he could just _barely_ get enough leverage to thrust into his fist. It was ungainly and awkward and he felt like a prize druffalo fattened up for market—he felt like a mockery of the man he used to be, ballooned up in size and stinking of ale and still stupidly drunk as he grunted and thrust and rubbed his fat gut against the mattress and came with the startling realization that this was his life now. This was _him_.

Alistair crashed to his side in an ungainly sprawl, come streaking the vast underside of his gut, one hand stroking over the widest point of it. He wondered what Hawke and Isabela had seen when they looked at him. A fat, useless drunk near to popping out of his latest pair of clothes—swollen so big, it was a wonder no one recognized him anymore.

Would _she_ recognize him?

Would the Hero of Ferelden look at him and see the man he used to be? The shy lover? The friend? Or would she just see another fat, useless drunk too?

“Don’t care,” he told himself, stroking his shuddering flank, craving a drink. “Don’t even bloody care.”

**

Turned out, he did care. He cared enough to take a ship back to Ferelden the very next day and track her down—all those extra pounds of him, defiantly big and only a little tipsy for this monumental meeting.

Also? Turned out the Hero of Ferelden had a thing for fat drunks and a matching desire to bury the hatchet all these years later. She even smiled when she saw him, recognizing him instantly.

Who’d have figured?


End file.
